Too Long in this Hell
by Ashley A
Summary: The night before the final battle. Arthur and Lancelot's last talk.


Authors note:

Set the evening before the final battle.

A/G and A/L friendship.

Please do the feedback thing!

Rated PG

Disclaimer:  checks self nope, still don't own them.  sob

Too long in this Hell

          The coals glow a soft red, throwing their reflection on Arthur's stubbled and grizzled face.  He stands alone at the round table, consulting a map of the garrison.  He's been looking at it for about an hour, and no matter what way he stares at it, the same idea is the only thing that comes.

          Stand and fight.  Alone. 

          _All my actions have led me to this moment._

He knows it to be the whole truth.  In time, he prays desperately that the others will understand why he has to do it.  He prays that he himself will.

          His neck aches and his eyes burn, and as he gazes about him at the empty, silent table, the faces and voices of all those who had passed there fill his memory and heart so full he can barely stand.

          He drops his head forward, hiding the bitter tears of rage at himself, rage at his failure, rage at the loss of his remaining five friends.

          A dark haired figure at the door watches silently, contemplating entering and intruding upon the wall Arthur has erected around himself.

          The great hall is dark save for the coals warming it, and as Lancelot observes Arthur, he jerks slightly as his old friend heaves the map he's been reading into the fire, giving a rough cry as he does so.

          Arthur stands, rooted in place, his arms crossed over his chest.  Tracks of shiny wetness line his cheeks, and make a stripe through the dirt embedded there.

          Lancelot pushes the door open, and shuts it behind him silently.  Arthur does not look up, speaking softly.

          "I have said my piece, Lancelot.  You cannot dissuade me.  Do not try, for the sake of our friendship."

          "Our friendship?" the Sarmatian man quieries.  "What respect do you still hold for that?  You have taken it upon yourself to go through with this fools errand, without even speaking of it to any of us?  'Seize the freedom you deserve, I cannot follow you'?  For God's sake, why?"  He bangs his fist on the table, and Arthur finally looks at him.

          "Suicide is my choice, isn't that what you said before?" Arthur answers sardonically.  Lancelot opens his mouth, raising a hand slightly.  Before he can say anything, Arthur takes the few strides that separate them, and meets his friend's gaze dead on.

          "What is left for me?  The Rome I held in so high accord does not exist, except in my dreams," he spits bitterly.  "My father is gone.  Pelagious is gone.  You knights have surrendered and sacrificed everything you hold dear for Rome, for me, for fifteen years.  I will not, I cannot, let that have been in vain. How can you not understand that…you who know me best?"

          Arthur turns, breathing heavily, not willing to show too much emotion in front of his oldest friend.  He doesn't want to give any of them any reason to stay.  They have every reason in the world to go.

          "We will not be here in the morning, Arthur.  In any other circumstance, I would stay with you.  You know that.  But this time, I…we cannot.  Do not question our loyalty," Lancelot tells him.  "But with all the loss, and all the death…look at this table," he says suddenly.  "One hundred seats, for one hundred hand picked knights.  Do you remember the first day, after you and I had gathered them all?  How the hall rang with boisterous laughter and was filled with the spirit of true warriors?  Great men, all of them.  Now look at it," he says, his voice cracking slightly as he sweeps his arm around.  "One hundred places.  Five knights and one commander left.  All we have waited for, all we have wanted, is within our grasp.  All you ever spoke of, dreamed of, is here, now! And you choose to stay and fight a battle you cannot possibly win?  Dagonet is gone, Arthur.  He is free, but only because he cannot have it any other way now.  Would you have him know that you stayed, and died for no reason?"  The younger man is trembling now, violent tears dripping down his own face.

          "Lancelot," Arthur starts.  He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair.  "It pains me deeply to hear this from you.  You who I trust most of all.  You who have seen me through great days, and horrific.  You who are my brother.  I have no more words for you…if you don't understand me now, I have no hope of explaining anything further," he says, slumping down into one of the empty chairs.  He blinks his red, tired eyes rapidly, wishing feverishly that he could make his friend understand. 

          " 'All my actions have led me to this moment' ," Lancelot breathes, and Arthur nods.  "Do not think I don't understand your motivations, Arthur.  I see her as well," he adds, cursing himself for admiting it.  "She is everything you could want in a woman."

          The other man turns in his seat suddenly.  Anger crackles in his dark gaze, and if it were any different man, that man would have wisely stepped out of the way.  Lancelot holds his position, never wavering.

          "Guinevere is not my primary motivation, Lancelot.  She is…a mystery to me.  I do not quite believe myself when I am around her.  She makes me examine things about myself I would not have given a moments thought to a few days ago.  And now after all that's happened…I have to wonder if she isn't right."

          "Damn it, Arthur!" his friend yells, throwing his arms upward, as if casting common sense to the wind.  "These ideas will be your death."

          "I am not afraid of death, my brother.  I am afraid of despair, and the empty life it brings with it.  I know in my soul you feel the same.  Otherwise you would not be here, now.  You are the truest person I have ever known, Lancelot.  God take me if you ever change.  You deserve to go home.  Please, friend, please," Arthur says at last, standing, "go home."

          "Home?  I have been too long in hell.  I know naught of home," Lancelot says evenly, his dark eyebrows raised.  Arthur jumps as if struck.  "I may be leaving this nightmare behind, but home…I haven't the faintest notion where to start looking."

          "Oh, God, Lancelot," Arthur says.  He can't finish his sentence.  He watches as the last of the map he had thrown into the fire burns out with a crack.

          "I shall take my leave of you, my lord," Lancelot speaks suddenly, his expression dull and dim.  Arthur aches to see it.

          "I have but a few things to ready, but I should like to spend my last night on this accursed island in relative peace."

          He strides forward, his hand out to Arthur. It shakes only slightly.

          Arthur hesitates, knowing there is more to be said, but doesn't act on it.

          He clasps the other man's hand, holding it tightly.  They stare at one another, one full of final acceptance and resignedness, the other filled with anger and sorrow.

          "God go with you, brother," Arthur states simply, and Lancelot shakes his head.

          "God be with you, for I have no need of him," he answers, and cracks a smile.  Arthur laughs with him, but he feels no happiness.  He knows the other man doesn't either.

          "I…" Arthur says, then stops. 

          "I know," Lancelot replies, and just as quietly as he had come, he's gone.

          Arthur waits, a tumult of emotion ripping its way through his guts.

          It is time, then.  There is no turning back, no changing his mind.  He knows he's made the right decision.  There can be no other one.  Since rescuing Guinevere and the boy from the Honorius estate, his world has been turned on its ear, and nothing will ever be the same again.  It cannot be for him.

          His quarters are dim and hollow feeling after the great hall, and he removes his boots, laying on the small bed, perhaps for the last time.  His Roman dress armor waits for him to put it on, gleaming from the reflection of the moon at the window.

          His eyes droop closed, and as he contemplates his last night here at the Wall, he prays to all gods that his friends will do right by themselves, and grasp their freedom for all its worth.

          _All my actions have led me to this moment._

He sleeps finally, a dark haired maiden filling his dreams.  The dreams become marred, however, and twisted with the face of another dark haired warrior, a hurt and betrayed expression on his face.

          He turns and tosses, his sleep disturbed and dark, and when she finally comes to his bed, he gives thanks and takes solace in her kisses and touch.

          That is all he can do now.

Fin.


End file.
